


there will be no grand choirs to sing

by greekdemigod



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Teacher - Teacher Relationship, chapter 3 is pretty much PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-05-14 18:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19278661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekdemigod/pseuds/greekdemigod
Summary: "Ann has not yet met anyone, save herself, that has not had any sort of experience with the illustrious Professor Anne Lister, campus’ resident powerhouse, it seems.She is so curious by now, positively coiled up tight with questions and expectations, that she is certain Anne Lister will be entirely unable to meet the standards everyone has set for her. A mighty interesting woman she must be, judged by the amount of talk she has inspired, but it would take a grand personality indeed to be all that people ascribe to her."// or: Ann Walker is a new at the same university that professor Anne Lister works for, and she is very curious.





	1. no chorus will come in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, two things.
> 
> 1) I haven't written in ages, so go easy on me pls.  
> 2) thank you for reading!

Ann sets up her easel last, in the bay window of her on-campus apartment, and marvels at the job she’s done with the limited space. Most every inch of shelf space is lined with framed photos or art works; some her own, some others, all special. The wooden floorboards are freshly clean, sparkling, shining. She has been living here for a couple of days already, but decorated and finally the way she wants it, exactly, makes her envision her stay here more clearly, for the next year, and hopefully more years after that.

Just in time too, she thinks, as she hears the knock on her door and remembers the plans she made. A week before students will slowly start returning for the year, all professors and teaching staff seem to want to get every last bit of summer out of their days yet, and Ann has been swept up into it.

It helps, with the missing of her friends at home, her family, the life she has always known.

“Come in. I’ll be there in a second.” The women crowd into her living room, gawking at everything she’s stalled out, and Ann finds maybe she can take more than a breath to get ready.

In her bed room, small in size but drowning in sunlight pouring in through the big windows, she exchanges her dress for a fresh and more colorful one, and slips out of her socks to step into her favorite pair of heels. She listens with half an ear to the conversations happening on the other side of the wall and revels in the praise they indirectly bestow on her work. This is as close as she’ll ever get to an exhibition.

“I’m ready.” She smiles as she joins these new friends she’s made, these women who are educated and talented and interesting, and somehow she belongs with them. “Let’s head out.”

Minutes later, they’ve taken up two tables on a terrace, adjacent to the town square, bathing in the sun. There are drinks in their hands; for Ann it’s sangria, with fruit bobbing up and below the surface, to reclaim the memory of the trip to Barcelona she made in July. This, she thinks, sipping her drink and looking around this assortment of women idly chatting about this and that topic, she much prefers over the social gatherings by the university.

For there have been many. Introductions. Lunches, and brunches, and dinners, and drinks. There have been so many faces, so many names, that Ann is perpetually astounded that there are still more people for her to meet. She feels she must have been introduced to over a hundred people already, so surely they must be running out by now... except one, of course.

There is one name that keeps coming up, mentioned by people who seem to have nothing in common otherwise. There has been outright admiration, sheltered jealousy, compounded frustration. The name has been carried gently on a woman’s tongue, or brusquely on a man’s. It is all so very confusing, perplexing, how one person can cause such a diverse reaction among such a diverse crowd.

Ann has not yet met anyone, save herself, that has not had any sort of experience with the illustrious Professor Anne Lister, campus’ resident powerhouse, it seems.

She is so curious by now, positively coiled up tight with questions and expectations, that she is certain Anne Lister will be entirely unable to meet the standards everyone has set for her. A mighty interesting woman she must be, judging by the amount of talk she has inspired, but it would take a grand personality indeed to be all that people ascribe to her.

Ann takes a good, long swallow of her drink, bites into the soggy fruit, and with lips red from the wine she smiles, blends into the conversation around her, and tucks away her thoughts about Anne Lister for now.

* * *

Ann forgets, as soon as the year starts. She has classes to prepare, office hours to contend with, many hours spent in lecturing halls and class rooms, filling young minds with stories and techniques and rules of historical art periods.

She loves Art History, and she loves conveying it all to others, so that they might love it too. That this is merely an elective, taken predominantly by students in fields of study that have nothing to do with the humanities, and consequently she sees her turn-up dwindle every week, sees how engaged and tuned-in they stay lessen as the hour passes, she tries not to let it bother her that much.

The front rows are always filled with students that do love the subject matter, earnestly, bright-eyedly, scribbling notes along furiously and trying to talk to her after class and proudly showing off the extra reading they’re doing or the galleries they’re visiting. She has been shown so much art, and such thoughtful essays, and she tells herself that it’s enough. Even if she hungers for a little more... A little more...

Respect. Gravitas. To be taken entirely serious, not just by those who like her, but by everyone.

The worries spiral around themselves inside her mind, a vicious whirlwind that, by all senses and logics, should make her the quiet of the storm—but really, her thoughts never shut up, and her mind is never quiet at all, and—

Her mind stops. For just a second, hitching, stalling.

Enigmatic brown eyes are settled on her from across the hall, and the head tilts slightly sideways, half-smile inching up the right corner of her mouth—cocky. Every line and bend of that woman’s body is cocky. The hand, slender fingers sprawled across the top of her cane, twirling idly—cocky. The narrow-fitting button-up and dress pants, the jacket stretched across her broad shoulders, the close-cropped buzz cut—cocky.

This must be Anne Lister then, Ann thinks, instinctual. She feels supercharged with the woman’s attention on her, even if it is brief, for a second later the gaze slides away from her and she feels cold but arcing electricity.

“Meet me at my office later today,” Ann catches her saying, to the pretty Professor Lawton, who is a flirt and an easy smiler and who seems the only person currently in the hallway not in the least daunted by Miss Lister. Students pass the two of them by with eyes down-cast, with flushed cheeks, with hunched shoulders. Ann definitely isn’t unphased, stomach roiling, nerves jittery, arousal like a supernova streaking along. But Mariana Lawton meets Anne Lister’s gaze with a smirk and manages to keep standing up straight.

Ann has to flee back into her class room and leave the other way, because she might boil into nothing but a puff of wind if she doesn’t. She has never felt a reaction so visceral to anyone, but Anne Lister managed with one glance to unravel her.

She might just be glad that she didn’t get to meet Anne Lister around a crowd of people after all.

* * *

It’s not so easy to forget Anne Lister after that. She pops up everywhere, for brief moments. On campus, in hallways, in town. Anne Lister seems to refuse to be where she is expected, when all the professors gather, but everywhere else seems fair game, and so Ann is always caught unprepared.

They have not exchanged any conversation yet, but Ann worries that they will. What will she say? She’ll yearn to impress her, but knows she won’t be able to. She’s a lowly former art student, with nothing interesting about her beyond her family’s fortune of wealth and her family’s fortune of tragedy.

She has not yet figured it out when fate decides to intervene.

“Miss Walker, are you avoiding me?” The voice is gentle, almost purring, but there is something steely beneath it. It races a shiver down her back.

Ann turns around and looks into the smiling face of Anne Lister, maybe an arm’s length away from her, leaning against the door frame. Of all places, she has to run into her in one of the storage closets containing stationery. What a dull location for a woman so magnificent.

“I—No, I’m not— That’s not what I’m doing.” She has lost her groundedness, her calm, within seconds, and already she is floundering talking to her. Ann is sure she must be blushing, for heat pulses inside her head. “Why would you think that?”

“I have heard so many things about you.” Anne Lister steps past her, into the confined space of boxes and closets. “You have quite enchanted the people here, miss Walker. No one can stop talking about how refreshing and... earnest you are.”

Somehow, coming from her, that feels like it might be a compliment doubling as an insult. Either way, Ann can’t catch a proper breath.

“Yet here I am, never having talked to you for even a minute.” She turns to face her, one eyebrow quirked slightly up. “So tell me, why is that?”

“I...” Ann shrugs her shoulders, helplessly. Her gaze falls to the sandy-colored tiles beneath their feet. “I don’t know.”

Strong, slender fingers slip beneath her chin and tilts her face up. Anne Lister is even closer now, a breath’s length, so close that Ann can see her dark lashes graze against her cheeks every time she blinks, can see a twinkle of delight in the dark depths of her eyes. “You fascinate me, miss Walker. I do hope to talk to you again soon.”

And with that, she’s off, a bundle of pens and a pack of printing paper tucked beneath her arm.

It takes Ann several minutes before her knees stop knocking together.

* * *

There are many conversations like that, and none different, over the months that follow, and every time they leave Ann breathless and yearning. Anne Lister knows exactly the influence she has on the young professor; she is sharp-witted and insightful and well-aware, so of course she does. Which leads Ann to believe she must be doing it on purpose, must be wanting to do it.

Or maybe Ann is deluding herself.

But when she dreams, it’s about Anne Lister’s mouth, her hands, her eyes. When she draws, it’s flashes of long limbs, sharp edges, pale skin.

The year drags itself past the Halloween parties, past the looming essay deadlines and the mid-terms, and finally to the end of year celebration before she’ll be off for Christmas break. It’ll do her good, to be away and back home for a couple of weeks, to take her mind off Anne Lister. It has become quite the obsession, and she’s starting to read into it what she wants, not what is the reality of it.

Just one more evening, she tells herself, as she smooths out the tight silver dress she put on, as she arranges her curled hair into what she hopes to be an elegant style and not a young girl trying at being a princess.

Campus is dark beyond the beams of lantern light and the spots illuminating the stairs up to the faculty building, a darkness that only can exist in winter, deep and crisp. The cold curls across her cheeks, roseying them, and through her hair, like eager fingers, stretching.

She dives happily into the hall, where her coat becomes a useless luxury, the heating warming her up.

“Let me help you with that.”

Of course.

Strong hands pull the coat off her shoulders, and a few knuckles graze along her bare arm. But it’s Anne Lister herself, hovering behind her, face downturned and almost pressed against her shoulder, that Ann has difficulty ignoring.

Since when does Anne Lister attend these sorts of things? Why tonight, when Ann feels stretched thin from a trimester of being kept on her toes and holding her breath? All of it conspires to finally alight her a little, to wake her bravery from her life’s worth of slumber.

When she spins to face Anne, it’s with a balled hand by her side and eyes unashamed to peer into Anne Lister’s. “I would like to talk to you.”

“Good. My office is in this building.”

Anne Lister has a pocket watch, apparently—it comes out when she goes fishing for a ring of keys. It jangles and clinks as they walk—a foot apart, not looking at each other, not speaking.

Ann is mentally preparing what she’s going to say, or trying and failing. It seems childish to ask why Anne Lister treats her the way she does, and petulant to ask for more than snippets of teasing, daunting conversation spread across weeks, and weak to tell her to stop. How pathetic I am, she thinks, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. To not even know if she wants to continue burning, or if she wants to be doused miserably.

The office is full of bookcases, floor to ceiling, breaking up only for the two north-facing windows. There is a leather-bound journal on her desk, opened to a page about halfway through, and it is thick with added loose pages and post-its and prints. Next to it, an elegant fountain pen, a pile of research books, and a forgotten cup of tea. Anne Lister switches on the desk lamp rather than the overhead light.

There is a sofa too, more stylish than it looks comfortable, and a rug across the floor.

It fits with the old-timey outfits Anne Lister always has on. Today’s takes the cake, with a finely embroidered vest over a black satin dress shirt and tight corduroy pants. This place looks stolen out of time, and so does Anne Lister.

“I think you’re a little bit in love with me.”

Ann licks her lips, frowns, registers. “What?” Instantly her heart hammers in her throat, wickedly.

“I think,” she repeats, slowly, drawling. There is something southern about her voice, now unguarded, less poised. “That you, Ann Walker, are a little bit in love.” She pats across her collar bone, above her heart. “With me.”

Ann can’t defend herself, because her tongue refuses to speak the blatant lies. It’s true; she has known this for some time, insofar she  _can_ be in love with someone she barely knows, she is. All it’s waiting for is to be ignited, really. She thinks as soon as she could talk to Anne Lister intimately, she would be done for forever.

“If so, and I state no preference one way or another, you should do something about it.”

She leans back on her desk, vest and shirt stretching with the backwards movement to slip out of her pants, to show a strip of her belly. Legs set apart, surely footed, her hands loosely holding onto the edge of the desk, Anne Lister grins, assured of herself, and cocks her head.

Something roars inside Ann, something snaps, and she’s across the room in seconds. They knock uncharmingly, inelegantly, legs into knees, breasts into shoulders, but, most importantly of all and diminishing all the rest to nothingness, mouth to mouth.

Anne Lister tastes sharp, like mint and a knife’s edge. But she kisses surprisingly softly, plush lips moving against Ann’s with a regulated passion. She’s sure she could be devoured whole by this woman, for a she-wolf would make short work of a little lamb, but Anne is choosing not to.

A hand clasps around her neck, palm to where her pulse beats itself against her throat, and a thumb tilts her face upwards so that those same soft, gentle lips can trail their way down parallel her choppy, frantic breathing. “My brave little sunshine.”

Her arousal purrs at the nickname, the possession.  _My_. Ann keens ever so softly, shaking hands twisting into corduroy fabric and around supple thighs. “Yes.” Breathy, wanton.

She feels like she’s flying when Anne Lister pushes her across the room, feels like she’s crashing into herself when she is unceremoniously pressed into the sofa. And then she is out of herself again, because Anne Lister settles on top of her, the full weight of her pressing everywhere, encompassing, and Ann’s mind is on every part of it the same way her hands are, trailing along the curve of her back, along her side heaving with breath, steering her hand to the edge of her dress.

It’s fast, all of it. They’ve barely talked, and here they are. And Anne Lister wastes no time now they’re here, either, skirting up her dress and bunching it around her waist, leaving only enough room between them for her arm to rest there comfortably.

Fingers slide against and up and into her, filling her, making her come undone so expertly that Ann can’t stop herself from crying out, loudly, with all their colleagues two floors beneath them.

With the edge of her desire sated, Anne Lister settles against her, the stubbly, scratchy fuzz of her hair chafing against the vulnerable skin of her throat, but Ann doesn’t want her to move. She is still catching her breath, looking up at the ceiling and the way the light plays across it.

“I still would like to talk to you.” Her voice sounds hoarse with pleasure and still more yearning, so she clears her throat. “Actually get to know you.”

“You can.” Anne’s voice is a whisper. Her hands are gently drawing shapes over her dress-clad stomach. “You will. Once you get back from your trip home.”

With this new development, she wishes she could stay, but she has arranged all of it already. Of course, looking at the face against her sternum, hidden almost entirely by shadow, she feels this timing is orchestrated. Anne Lister wanted it this way.

Eyebrows raised, dark eyes look up at her, and a soft smile blooms. “Can’t say I don’t like the thought of you thinking about me, about  _this_ ,” and her hand starts wandering again, feeling for the zipper on her back, “while you’re with your family celebrating Christmas.”

And Ann, even though she has yet to leave, already can’t wait to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> you can find me on twitter @ofbatwoman if you want updates on my writing progress or my ramblings about how obsessed i am with this show!


	2. no ballad will be written

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, here it is, the much-requested and long-awaited sequel installment. and guess what, fuckers. i really did it to myself that i had to be writing about christmas in the middle of summer, but here were are and my mind is twisted in on itself in ten different ways.
> 
> i hope you all enjoy!

It has been a tough couple of days for Ann Walker. Her tribe of relatives is perfectly nice, and Christmas has been fun, and she has worn fluffy socks and ugly sweaters every day since she has gotten to Halifax, so really, that’s all that should be said about her time off. It has all the ingredients of a good holiday season. Her family even seem to be genuinely interested in things she has to say, now that she has proven to them once and for all she is more than the quiet, isolated niece who could never be pulled out of the corner at family gatherings.

All of them have put in an effort to make up for years of not trusting she had a solid head on her shoulders and—really, she appreciates the effort, she _does_ , but... her mind just isn’t here right now, exactly.

She keeps flashing back to a particular couch in a particular office, to being devoured and debauched covered in nothing but moonlight, with Anne mouthing sweet promises into her skin of more to come when she’s back. When she closes her eyes, she can feel the scratch of Anne’s buzz cut against her fingers again. The slide of her arms, the gentle pressure of her hips. Her lips tingle with the memory of being kissed like it was the only thing that mattered.

Ann has become rather good at hiding the flush that always accompanies these thoughts, because she turns a wicked shade of red every time, and indeed her family seem none the wiser, happy to continue talking and gossiping over steaming mugs of tea and several plates of biscuits.

One after the other cousin, uncle, relative twice removed show up to the house, so that in no time it is crowded again. She understands that this is somewhat of a highlight in everyone’s year, but Ann is starting to wish she hadn’t come home for Christmas break for more than just the one reason that has been keeping her on edge since she has left Cambridge.

“Earth to Ann.” It’s Catherine, tugging at her sleeve and waving a hand in front of her face. The pouty quality of her bottom lip clues Ann in on her niece’s displeasure. “What’re you thinking about all the time?”

So maybe she has not fooled everyone. And it makes sense. They’ve been best friends since they were born, only four months apart from each other. They isolated themselves all the time, so that they could sit together and read and paint, while the grown-ups got louder with each liberal helping of whatever they were sharing that night.

She has been ignoring Catherine in favor of her vivid daydreams and that’s not fair.

“Alright. I’ll tell you. Just,” Ann looks around, at ruddy-faced uncles and bright-eyed aunts. “Not here. Come on.”

They hurry into the hall and up the stairs, giggling as they race across the hallway and slam the door to Ann’s room closed maybe a little loudly. She feels juvenile as she flops onto her bed, unmade with her blankets just a heaping in the middle, and waits until she feels the mattress dent next to her to roll into her cousin.

It’s surreal that they’re now twenty-five and _living their lives_ , complete with jobs and friends and, in Catherine’s case, even a fiance. Ann is brought right back to herself from roughly ten years ago, who lay here in much the same way and told Catherine about her very first crush. Even then on a girl already, and even then Catherine had been so not bothered by it.

“There’s this woman.”

A knowing smile comes to her cousin’s face, and at once she is all the way in. Propped up on her arm, she is looking at her, urging her on with short nods of her head.

“Her name is Anne Lister. She’s the most aggravating woman I’ve ever met. She knows how smitten I am with her—because she is so smart, right? Absolutely brilliant woman—so she _knows_ , and she’s just been toying with me. And right before I left to come here, we...” And here she loses speed, stumbles to a halt as she shyly looks at Catherine and hopes that’s enough to convey the message.

“ _No_ ,” Catherine gasps, full of glee. “You kissed?”

Ann bites her lip and nods. “Like, a lot. And more.”

“Oh my god! Okay, okay. So... when are you going back?”

“In a week, when—”

“No, that simply won’t do. Let’s see.” Catherine resettles onto her back and pulls out her phone. While her brown curls fall out of the pins she has used to put her hair up, she taps away viciously, until she shoves the brightly-lit screen into her face. “You could be back in Cambridge by supper time. We’ve done Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, _and_ Boxing Day. Your familial duties, as it were, are fulfilled.”

Ann waits, watching, letting her words sink in. Then warmth builds, _soars_. She thinks about getting back to Anne, to getting to spend more time with her, properly, actually getting to know her. Vaulting off the bed, she pulls her suitcase to her and starts chucking things in. “I’ll say it’s a work emergency,” she muses aloud as she sticks every single ugly sweater she owns back where it came from.

Her hands halt over her strewn-out clothing, mind slowing down from its frantic whirring. Is she really about to bail on family time for a woman she barely knows? “Do you think they’ll be terribly mad?”

“I’ll be terribly mad if you stay, Ann, and I like to believe I’m the one who matters most.”

* * *

Half an hour out from Cambridge, after having worked herself into half a state through worrying the entire train ride, Ann realizes she has no way to get into contact with Anne. They never quite got to the exchanging phone numbers part, and she doubts Anne can be found in her office when campus is closed. She thumps a closed fist against her forehead, then drops her head onto the small table with a groan.

_Okay, think._

Anne Lister is most likely not on Facebook. Twitter seems like it might be for her, but with a whole world of username possibilities she’s not sure she will be able to track her down at all. LinkedIn?

No, no, god no. She’s not going to message her one-night-stand—that she wants to turn into something more, so badly—on _LinkedIn_.

No, she’ll have to ask someone for Anne’s number. But who? Who’s not going to be asking her questions she’s not ready or willing to answer?

Ten minutes out from Cambridge, she gives up and texts Eliza Priestley. She’ll come to regret it, of that she’s sure, but she is the one most likely to have Anne’s number. Ann does not want to have come all this way for nothing. Within _seconds_  she has the number, but with it the tangible promise she’ll have to cough up some secrets to Eliza in return.

She’ll deal with that later.

Her train arrives, slowing to a stop in Cambridge station, and she still hasn’t managed to compose a text to Anne that she’s content with. The options course through her mind as she pulls her suitcase from the rack and carries it out onto the platform. Cambridge is a lot less frosty than Halifax was, but she huddles into her coat nonetheless. Her phone burns in her hand.

Should she come on strong? Play coy? Act normal? Can she even act normal after the way she moaned and mewled and moved against her?

 _Shit_ , she thinks, exasperated of herself.

Cambridge is not at all desolate. Plenty students seem to have chosen not to go back home for the break, and many are making treks around town for one reason or another. Ann sits down on a bench beneath an awning and watches, for much longer than she is willing to admit, how a group of three gentlemen is trying to fashion a snow man out of the one inch dusting of snow that has fallen here.

Crystalline fingers of cold wrap around her wrists as she pulls her hands out of her pockets and unlocks her phone once more. She tries to tell herself this is it, she’s just going to _do it_ , she’s going to type out a text message to Anne Lister that doesn’t make her seem clingy or needy or crazy.

She keeps thinking it, but her fingers are frozen solid above the screen, that goes black and reflects her face back at her.

After googling ‘good first messages to send’ and reading several articles of supposed good, fool proof advice, Ann is ready to give it all up, slink home, and pretend she never head-over-heels returned to chase after what? One lusty evening that might not mean anything to Anne?

Groaning, she leans back, baring her throat to the bite of a cold winter evening, and wishes fervently for inspiration to strike.

It does, in a way. Anne would _not_ find this behavior attractive. The thought strikes like thunder, as she sits there feeling sorry for herself. Anne is assertive, bold, thrilling. She wanted Ann to go in for that first kiss. She wanted fire.

**[Round 2 when I’m back in town? - x Your brave little sunshine]**

As soon as she hits send, every nerve slams into overdrive, while her body feels suspended in anti-gravity, a weightless sort of dread. She can’t remember she’s ever had it quite this bad for anyone, but Anne—oh, Anne has managed to unhinge her so.

And then— _ping!_

**[Did we not get up to four last time? ;)]**

Yes, they did.

**[If you just want to talk, you could just say so. ;p]**

Nothing for a while. Ann sits with her elbows on top of her legs, phone held inches from her phone, waiting. Her whole body rattles with the vibration of the incoming message.

**[When exactly are you back?]**

**[Now. I returned about half an hour ago.]**

**[That so? Interesting. Any plans for tonight?]**

**[None whatsoever.]**

She is texted nothing more than an address after that. Her eyes go blind staring at the conjunction of words and numbers, seeing nothing but lines of black on a white background.

So, this is happening, then?

Her toes are numb, her feet prickle as blood rushes back into them, moving her legs is a sluggish affair. She pulls the handle of her suitcase out and starts rolling it across the pavement, towards her apartment that she’s missed. Soon she can be back in her own bed, read on her own couch, have breakfast in her kitchen. She’s missed that all a lot. But first, she has a house call to make, doesn’t she?

It must be so visible to anyone she crosses on the street, like a neon ad buzzing and blinking off her forehead. Everyone must see she is hauling her ass across town the best she can on the slippery, icy streets because she’s going on a booty call.

Because that’s what she’s turned it into, isn’t it?

But, frankly, she wouldn’t care. Not really. Because her body is reaching out, searching its companion in the void of the world. She wants to be touched like that again, caressed, kissed. She hums with tension and longing. If all they do is fuck like animals tonight, it’s exactly what she needs.

She throws her suitcase inside and checks herself in her hallway mirror. Her hair looks good enough. Her make-up is still on. She’s in a sweater with a ridiculous rendition of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer on it, but she knows that if she takes it off she’ll worry herself into a dizzy spell trying to decide what to wear instead.

It doesn’t matter. It’ll be taken off soon enough.

Anne... does not live very far from her. Five blocks, and she’s walking in a neighborhood she hasn’t been in before, but she hasn’t been following Google Maps for much longer than ten minutes or she’s standing in front of the number Anne sent her.

She rings the bell, and waits out the longest minute in her life on a door mat that says, “Come back with a warrant”. She would laugh if her body wasn’t twisting itself up into a million intricate knots.

“Ann.” Her name is a sigh off Anne’s lips. “That’s fast.”

And god, every star really does burn to nothing compared to the way Anne smiles. She’s never seen Anne smile like this before, such an honest thing of a smile, it sends Ann reeling.

 _Oh, don’t fuck this up_ , she chants at herself, looking at the woman in the door frame. She’s in _pajamas_ : an ensemble of loose, shiny, golden pants and jacket, with a black button-down matched with it. All of it is about a size and a half too baggy on her, but it looks so... Shit, it looks _jarring_. It’s not what she expected to see Anne in, ever.

It makes her seem like she’s attainable, like she’s as normal as the rest of them instead of exceptional.

“Well, don’t freeze to death on my door step. Come in.”

Ann is curious. She always has been. So she can’t help it that she’s looking around eagerly, trying to take in the place that Anne calls her home. It’s... much cozier than she would’ve guessed. The walls are a warm beige, white plinths line the edges, the furniture looks old and like it could have been plucked from a museum. There are, as to be expected, books _everywhere_. And pictures.

There’s a lot of the same woman that keeps returning in most every frame, an older woman with gray curls and a kind smile.

“Wine?”

Ann blinks out of her gawking and stammers out a yes.

“Don’t worry, look around as much as you want.”

Given such explicit permission, Ann slows down to take her time, taking in book titles and photo backgrounds. Anne joins her all too soon, and not soon enough.

The glass of wine is comforting and steadying, but all she does is hold onto it, because being so close to Anne makes her heady already. Her knees buckle just a little. Anne smells like cherrywood and tobacco, like a fire storm contained within a single person.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Anne whispers. Her hand lights upon Ann’s arm, deliberately, but her touches are _gentle_ , so gentle. It’s somehow worse, because at least when they had sex Ann could throw herself outside of her mind, let her body do all the work for her.

Now, her thoughts are spinning rapidly, and she is keenly aware of where those fingers trace against her. She has never been more grounded in her own body, so in tune with every shiver of static and rush of feeling.

“I promised you we would talk and you could get to know me when you got back, and you’re back.” She tilts her glass to Ann’s and the contact resonates, resonates, resonates. “So, let’s. I told you I am fascinated by you a long time ago—I meant that.”

Ann can’t figure her out. There is no bravado, except the base level that the woman likely can’t shut off even if she tried. There is no cockiness. There is no careful, precarious balancing. Anne seems so real, so genuine.

“If your silence means you’d rather I fuck your brains out again, I can. I like to please people.” Long, slender fingers drop from her arm to her thigh, adding promise to her words. “But I was under the impression you wanted to get to know _me_. Because of your big, glaring feelings for me.”

Stunned like a doe in headlights. Ann had forgotten the words Anne had thrown in her face last time—how Anne had _known_. It had been too terrifying to think about. Much easier to think about the ways they had moved and breathed and laughed together, pushed together on the slim couch.

“Ann.” Anne sinks to her knees in front of her, putting her hands up on Ann’s legs. Looking up at her from this position, imploring her with seeking eyes, she looks so soft. Not such an intimidating woman like this. “What I’m saying is, I’d like to see where this could go.”

“I—” Her tongue doesn’t work. The croaked sound warbles from her mouth. Her fingers find the curve of Anne’s cheeks, pull her face up to her. The first kiss is a soft, shaking slide of lips, because Ann can’t believe it, can’t believe this. The contact solidifies. Anne moves up, clinging to Ann, hands yanking at the front of her coat to be closer.

The way Anne holds onto her, drawing Ann closer with an arm now behind her back, she can’t stop from becoming wrapped up in this fully.

Forehead to forehead, they part reluctantly, breathing heavy, smiling wide. Anne starts unbuttoning the coat and urges it off without any particular heat. Her laugh when she sees the sweater is the sweetest sound.

“I have never met anyone like you, Ann Walker,” she whispers, tracing the outline of Rudolph. “I would like to get to know you, too. Think you can handle that?”

“Stop being a dick about it,” Ann mutters back. Presses a kiss to Anne’s sharp jaw. Claims a few more kisses for good measure, because she still doesn’t believe this won’t all be a really good dream when she wakes up. “You _know_ I want to.”

“Good. I have a bunch of food left over from when my aunt was here. Mind spending a little Christmas with me?”

And so, before they have even gone on their first date, they sit legs laced together on the couch, Anne in her pajamas and Ann in her ugly Christmas sweater, they talk the entire night away. And despite there being no mistletoe up in the house, they can’t stop kissing each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!


	3. for a moment we were able to be still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is basically PWP that doesn't add any plot whatsoever, so feel free to skip if gratuitous smut is not your thing!
> 
> meanwhile, i have decided to accept requests again, so feel free: https://curiouscat.me/kaymax

Music is a quiet, subtle companion to their evening. Wine joins at one point, then is neglected as they choose getting drunk off each other instead. Even when they’re not kissing, they are touching in some way; sock-clad feet rubbing against shins, knees nudging, fingers trailing along wrists and jaws and ears.

Anne can’t remember the last time things were this tender with a girl. She has always been a gentle, considerate lover, keeping the worst of herself at bay for a long, long time, but this... this is so soft, it feels all the more powerful for it.

She catches herself every time she wants to slip a hand under Ann’s emerald green Christmas sweater, or wants to tangle their legs together until they slot together like puzzle pieces, because they’ve done that, and they will undoubtedly do that some more, but this is something she wants to treasure first.

The whispers, the giggles, the fingers sliding against the back of her neck when they kiss. Sometimes they don’t even speak, just look at each other—Anne allows herself to tumble into the clear blue of Ann’s eyes, succumbing to this fascination she’s had for the blonde since her eyes first fell on her.

It had been summer. Glorious, sticky, exhausting summer with its heat and its insects and its humidity. Anne had just come off an entire summer away, traveling around the Mediterranean—from the sites of Greek mythology, to the pyramids of Egypt, to fruit and tea at the bazars of Morocco, to one last sejourn through Croatia on her way back to Cambridge.

She had been a little sour, the way she always got when the end of her journey inevitably arrived, and she had been wrapped up in her miseries, and then there she was. There were entire museums all across Europe dedicated to fair-haired, innocently smiling beauties such as her. Dressed in overalls and with her hair in a messy bun, she hadn’t even been trying to be charming.

Anne had been quite taken with her instantly.

Ann is the same sort of accidentally endearing spread out on her couch now, tendrils of curly blonde hair falling this way and that, her eyes fluttering slower and slower because the time is catching up with them and—Anne looks up, chuckles. “We have _not_ been talking for four hours already,” she murmurs, nose nuzzling against Ann’s cheek, lips brushing. “How did that happen?”

The distance between them closes again, their kiss smile-shaped. Ann nestles into her, head tucks into her neck, and Anne can’t help it: her heart surely grows three sizes. Her arms wind around Ann’s shoulders, clasping her to her chest. They settle into an altogether new sort of tenderness, this cuddling with Ann perched half on top of her, her breath warm a couple of inches above her sternum.

“Should I put you to bed?” Anne whispers. She is looking down at this body on top of her, slender, wrapped in layers of wool and silk, moving only with her breathing. Her hands are tracing over her back, soothing, symmetrical, continuous movements. If Ann falls asleep like this, she envisions herself carrying the woman to her bedroom, tucking her in.

For once, her mind is cushioned with clouds and cotton, downy, not a single dirty thought having crossed in quite some time.

Ann makes a noise between a sigh and a whine, a strangled little sound muffled further by the fabric of Anne’s pajamas. Unheard if the space, and beyond that the world, hadn’t been so quiet. “No,” comes that same muffled, buried sound. “I don’t want tonight to end.” She peeks up, eyes a sliver of blue between blonde hair and green wool. “Not yet.”

“I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“No.” It’s huffed this time, and Ann clambers upright and settles herself more fully into Anne’s lap. Just like that, a whirlwind tears through the serenity of her mind, upending it all to its usual chaotic horniness. Heavy hands settle on Ann’s hips, keeping her lodged within her position. “Not yet.”

The grin climbs to her face before Anne can think to stop it. “Okay, I concede. Not yet, then.”

They kiss again and not as much of the softness has faded as Anne expected. Their lips move slowly, languorously, taking their time. Their breaths are quiet puffs, swallowed giggles. Fingers touch along the hairline of her stubbly buzz cut, trace down to cup at her cheeks. Anne inches back to arch an eyebrow at Ann, but Ann surges after her, and then something _does_ snap.

Ann’s hips roll against her and there is no more guessing at what the other _really_ wants now, to stretch out their night just a little longer. Blue eyes stare back at her, alert and awake again, when Ann sits upright.

A hand clenches into the blouse Anne is wearing, crinkling around the force, pulling away from her stomach. Anne leans forward to pepper kisses against Ann’s neck, but the grip doesn’t falter. Buttons start slipping out of the holes, until her blouse falls open and away. Instantly Ann moves her attention to the jacket, urging it off her shoulders.

“Slow down,” Anne whispers, nipping beneath Ann’s jaw for good measure. She feels Ann swallow hard against her. “Let me take my time with you.” A breath shudders out close to her ear.

Her slender fingers, so used to penning down academic theorems, now glide beneath the sweater that has trapped heat against Ann’s skin. Muscles flex and jump beneath her touch, though it grazes only lightly. It hides from sight the way she cups a breast, tweaks the nipple of the other. But it can’t hide the way Ann careens into her, or the way her nose scrunches up and her eyes squeeze shut, or the gentle moans resounding from her pretty pink mouth.

Every pluck is a ripple through Ann’s facial express—eyebrow quirks, quivering smiles, high-pitched noises. Throwing her head back, hair cascading behind her, Anne can’t help but go in for the kill, mouth attaching a starkly contrasting vicious to her bare throat.

Ann yelps, then whimpers, clutching at Anne’s shoulders as a mark get sucked a dark, dark purple against her fair skin. And then Anne bites, like a predator, teeth sinking into skin. She can understand the appeal of vampires in that instant, with Ann stilling against her but trembling, trembling like the strings of an instrument holding the sweetest note.

Slowly, deliberately, Anne kisses her way back to Ann, and their reunion is a passionate thing on fire. Ann deepens it instantly.

Her hands slide lower, back to their perch on Ann’s hips, which she grabs hard enough for her digits to dig into her skin and bruise. She drags, drags Ann down against her, and the soft noise is all the last motivation she needs.

It’s easy to slip into the stretchy waistband of Ann’s pants and cup the apex of her thighs over her underwear, feel the wetness soaked through. Having that effect on women will never get old, but there’s something about getting Ann to such a level of need that makes heat prickle down her neck.

Ann bucks against her, eyes lidding as she jolts with the friction.

Anne shan’t make her wait any longer. She finds the sweet pearl, slick with arousal, and rubs roughly against it. A cry rips from Ann’s throat.

The girl leans forward against her, chest heaving with her laborous breath, and Anne watches her intently, reveling in every audible and visible reaction she elicits as she rubs, and circles, and rolls her fingers.

Ann is grinding down into her, and when Anne stops her hand just continues, huffing and mewling as she does.

Anne finds it so hot to feel Ann riding her fingers that her arousal pulses like thunder.

Ann does not come quietly. Her whole body seizes with her cries, her head falling back as she moans quiet, happy sounds on her way down. She is so sensitive that every slightest graze of Anne’s fingers now makes her twitch in response, and when Anne has finally pulled her hand back to herself Ann collapses against her, soft and sleepy once more, back to nuzzling into her neck.

Or soft and sleepy she thinks, but then she feels Ann mouthing along the curve of her throat. She slips down, lips and tongue and teeth leaving a trail of tiny marks down her chest, until Ann sits on her knees between Anne’s legs.

Anne’s heart lodges in her throat at the sight. Lifts her hips when Ann motions to take off her pants, shimmies out of them. She didn’t think Ann had it in her, but apparently she does. The soft kisses to her knee, the insides of her thighs, her hips are a nice touch, if Anne was still able to think—she is not.

Head clouded, her hands fist hard into Ann’s hair, and her sight never wavers from where that golden head sits between her thighs.

Ann is not voracious, she does not devour, but the slow burning build of her every lick and kiss has Anne bucking off the couch, twisting, writhing. Usually she is composed, but Ann has managed to frazzle her. She tenses every muscle in her body at once, slammed with her orgasm, fracturing her back into the stardust and cosmic matter she was made of.

There is still music playing, is the first thing she notices when her breathing starts to even and her heart no longer deafens every other sound. Ann is looking sinful, mouth glistening, eyes sparkling, still in that damned Christmas sweater.

Anne gets up onto shaky legs and pulls Ann forward by her chin, until they’re forehead to forehead grinning at each other. “Can I put you to bed _now_?”

“Yeah, okay.” Ann’s mumbling shows just how tired she is, any energy to fight this decision lacking. She willingly laces her fingers through Anne’s and lets herself be pulled along.

Her bedroom is clean, tidy. There is a small stack of books on the right bedside table and a folder of essays to grade over winter break, some more framed pictures on her dresser, the doors to her walk-in closet ajar.

Ann has eyes for nothing but the bed she climbs onto it. Anne glances at a clock in passing and notes that it’s well past midnight, into the early hours. It’s starting to catch up to her too. But she wants to get Ann undressed first.

The sweater goes first, finally, and Anne kisses down the hard ridges of Ann’s spine as she busies herself with taking her other garments off too, until she is in nothing but her panties.

It’s not cold in here, but decidedly not warm either, so she shakes off the pajama jacket she was wearing and helps Ann into it instead. It looks much, much better on her. Too big on her slim frame, the sleeves flop over her hands, but it’s so endearing.

Anne hugs her to her, rests her head against Ann’s back. They settle under the covers easily, as if they have been doing this for some time, sinking into the mattress and the downy pillows.

Ann is murmuring beneath her breath, unintelligibly. Off to sleep as soon as she gets comfortable.

Anne is awake for a little longer, but not much. Just enough time to really cuddle into Ann, press as much skin to skin as she can. And she gets to thinking about the few days of break they have left, all the things they could do, and then… who knows where this will go.

But her heart leaps knowing that they have time and a desire to find that out.

She falls into a dream after that almost as sweet as the evening she has just spent with Ann Walker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i think this is the last update on this for a while, because i want to go back to focusing on my other story "you can't wake up (this is not a dream)". thank you for all the interest you have shown in this though, i really appreciate it! <3


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